


four times brad gave claire his jacket

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Four Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Four times Brad gave Claire his jacket.





	four times brad gave claire his jacket

**Author's Note:**

> standard rpf rules apply. it should go without saying, but dont tag people in this, dont link people to this.

** _i._ **

It’s only her third week at Bon Appétit and no one told her to never, ever bet against Brad Leone when there are stakes on the line. But she’d been so certain that there was no way that he could just blindly throw together a stroopwafel batter and have it come out perfectly.

It’s her first lesson in never underestimating him. 

He’d pulled the perfectly crisped confection from the waffle iron with a smug, triumphant grin. “Well, well, Claire. Looks like you’re receiving and putting away the next order.”

She’d glared at him, annoyed at having been proven wrong (and losing) so publicly. But the second that he’d turned his back on her, already whistling to himself and mind leaping to the next task in the kitchen stroopwafels long forgotten, she’d immediately grabbed her pen and paper and began writing down exactly what he’d whisked together so effortlessly to achieve such a perfect outcome. 

When the truck rolls in the following week, Brad hands her the clipboard with the order sheet and a pen and opens the walk-in door for her with a flourish, “Your order awaits.”

She lifts her chin, takes the clipboard and offered pen, and waltzes into the walk-in to take the order like she was always going to, like it was her plan from the start. How hard can it be, after all? Count the boxes, mark the invoice, put the product on the shelf. 

Easy.

Except, she finds, it is _not_ easy and it is not quick. The kitchen orders a _lot_ and she’s frazzled, trying to figure out Brad’s system of organization in the walk-in and fighting the urge to not completely take everything off the shelves and organize it the way she would do it. 

It doesn’t help that the rest of the staff keep darting in and out of the fridge, grabbing things out of the stack of freshly delivered boxes, and throwing her entire system off. Plus it’s cold in here. Really, really cold.

She hadn’t brought her jacket with her, either. It’s New York in the middle of summer and she hadn’t anticipated being in the walk-in this long. There’s also a little bit of pride keeping her in the walk-in until she’s done and every piece of produce and meat and dairy is in their place and every box is broken down and hauled into the garbage.

Brad’s backwards baseball cap has made more than one appearance in the window of the walk-in and she _refuses_ to admit that this was much, much harder than she anticipated. She hates failing. She especially hates—she has learned in the last few weeks—failing in front of Brad.

But forty-five minutes later, Brad opens the walk-in door and takes one look at her lips and skin taking on a blue hue, the goosebumps on her skin, and the stubborn way in which she refuses to let him help her finish taking in the order. 

“Ah, jeez, Claire.”

“I got it, Brad. I’m almost done.”

It’s a lie and they both know it, studiously ignoring the giant stack of boxes she still has to work through. Uncharacteristically, he bites his tongue and rolls his eyes before turning on his heel and stomping out as quickly as he came in. 

It’s a hollow win for her, but she still has her pride in tact and that’s what matters. At least, that’s what she tells herself.

Fifteen seconds later, the walk-in door opens again, and she’s hit in the face with a bundle of thick, heavy fabric. She splutters and looks from the oversized jacket in her hands to the man in the doorway of the walk-in.

“You just started,” he says with a grin. “Wouldn’t want ya to get frostbite in your first month.”

And then he’s gone again, a blur and whirlwind of energy and that damn whistling again. 

She has her pride but she’s also absolutely freezing and the jacket in her arms is too inviting to ignore. She slips her arms into the jacket and pulls the giant, oversized jacket over her slim frame. The fabric swallows her and hangs to her knees. 

When she turns her nose into the collar and inhales, it smells spicy and warm and familiar in a way she can’t put her finger on. But it’s warm and protects her from the chill of the walk-in and she can finally think straight long enough to just _do this._

At the end of the day, after she triumphantly hops out of the walk-in, her end of the bet fulfilled, she sheds the jacket and hands it back to Brad with a pointed thanks and an invitation to inspect the walk-in.

“Naw, I think a Harvard girl managed a simple order take in pretty easily, right?”

It leaves her humbled in a way she hasn’t felt since grade school and she bows her head. He puts a warm hand on her shoulder, drawing her attention. There’s an easy, soft grin on his face—whatever sleight against him she’d committed long forgiven.

“See ya tomorrow, Saffitz.”

And with a flourish, he flips the jacket she’d been wearing—_his_ jacket—over his shoulder, whistling loudly once more as he walks out the door for the day.

It’s the first, but not the last time, Brad looks out for her.

** _ii._ **

It’s November in New York, Claire’s favorite time of year, when she drinks too much at the bar around the corner from the BA kitchen. The YouTube thing has really taken off and taken over in a way she hadn’t anticipated. It feels bizarre and invasive and performative to have a camera on her, capturing her every failure and every groan of frustration. 

Millions of people now know she’s prone to complaining and eye rolls and nihilistic tendencies. Millions of people also now know how much she relies on Brad for—well, _everything._ She doesn’t realize it until her friends text her with side eye emojis and insinuations about Brad being her goofy knight in shining armor. 

She watches the clips back and wants to blame it on the editing. But it’s another uncomfortable truth: When she gets frustrated, when she gets needy, she turns to one person time and time again. Brad.

It doesn’t help that she’s not sleeping, kept up at night with dreams of sugar work and chocolate tempering and a little too much self-reflection on her mind. 

So when Carla suggests they all duck out at five for a drink or two, she is the first to grab her purse and hustle everyone out the door and down the street. 

The bar on the corner is busy and they manage to lay claim to the corner couch, piled in together away from the door. She finds herself squeezed in between Brad and Molly and she works very, _very_ hard to not notice the fact that her thigh is pressed against his and he’s a solid wall of warmth beside her. 

It’s that rising panic and stress that everything is on the verge of falling apart, that she’s going to be exposed to the public, to her coworkers, to _Brad_ that drives her to chug the first beer placed in front of her and wave down the waitress for another round almost immediately.

She can feel herself laughing a little too loudly, shifting away and ignoring Brad for her own sanity, and drinking pint after pint of beer. Carla, Andy, and Morocco duck out first, kids and other plans calling them away. Molly follows behind them, citing a certain Tuna dog who needed her. 

And then it’s just her and Brad and she can feel him hovering behind her as she sways on unsteady feet to the bar to close out the tab. When she stumbles out the front door, he’s right there with a hand on the small of her back and another big hand wrapped around her upper arm, steadying her.

“Easy, Claire,” he tells her, a worried crease between his eyebrows. She knows this isn’t like her and that he hasn’t seen her like this before. She can’t muster up the words to tell him exactly why she’s been so short with him, so distant. 

“I’m fine,” she says, pulling away from him and ignoring the brief flash of surprise and hurt on his face. But the haze of alcohol is settling over her like a fog and she stumbles away, heading in the direction of her apartment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she tells him, a tiny olive branch. He raises and eyebrow and rejoins her at her side, a shadow she can’t seem to shake.

“Like hell I’m letting you walk home alone like this.” 

“Fine.”

He’s stern and annoyed that she would have thought differently. But she doesn’t read anything into it. That’s just how Brad is: the kitchen protector. She’s nothing special, she reminders herself.

They walk in silence and the sounds of the city cloak them in anonymity. He nudges her shoulder with his own, drawing her out of her reverie. 

“You wanna tell me why you were drinkin’ like a fish tonight?”

She shrugs and wraps her arms around her midsection, warding of the chill and the question. It hits her that the alcohol buzz that’s wearing off was keeping her warm. Now, the full blast of a New York fall is hitting her. 

“Claire?”

“It’s just too much sometimes,” she admits, alcohol making her feel loose, words falling a little easier. “Feels like the pressure is just—“

“Too much,” he finishes for her. She looks up at him and is surprised to find his blue eyes on hers, studying her carefully, watching her. 

“Yeah,” she whispers. Claire figures he’s maybe the only other person who _gets_ it. His show is just as insane, just as demanding. It would be so easy to confess everything right here and, if it goes horribly wrong, blame it on the alcohol.

But then a gust of piercing cold wind rips down the street and right there her and she yelps and shivers, glaring around her like New York has personally offended her. She can feel the goosebumps erupt over her skin and the cold sink into her veins. 

Not three seconds later, she’s encased in warmth. Brad’s jacket wraps around her shoulders and hangs down the length of her body. She’s too buzzed and cold to protest, just slips her hands into the sleeves and wraps it tighter around her. 

“Thanks,” she says softly. Unable to help herself, she turns and noses at the collar and inhales deeply, taking in the smell of him there. It’s almost embarrassing how comforting she finds it. 

He looks so _handsome_ standing there beneath the lights of the city, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and watching her with a soft, gentle smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. 

“Can’t have you turnin’ into a popsicle,” he explains. “‘Sides, looks better on you anyway.”

The flush from his praise and concern that she can feel on her cheeks warms her as much as the jacket and the alcohol. 

Before she can formulate a response, she realizes they’re at the stoop of her apartment building. 

“This is me,” she says, coming to a stop and beginning to shrug out of the jacket. He stops her with a hand on her shoulder and adjusts the collar around her neck, fingertips brushing against her skin and causing a new wave of goosebumps to erupt over her skin. 

“Keep it,” he tells her, voice soft and gruff. “You’ll need it for your commute tomorrow.”

And there he is again, watching out for her. 

“Okay.” It comes out soft and quiet and it feels suspiciously like the end of a date, shuffling her feet and waiting, waiting, waiting for something.

And then he’s stepping back, taking his warmth and those watchful eyes with him. 

“See ya tomorrow, Claire.”

It takes her a second to remember she needs to move her feet to get into her apartment, but the disappearing form of Brad’s backside distracts her.

She wraps the jacket tighter around herself and trudges up the stairs to her apartment. 

For the first time in weeks, she sleeps, Brad’s jacket hanging beside her front door, waiting for her. 

** _iii._ **

Brad’s worried. He’s a natural worrier, anyway—always cognizant of the health and attitudes of those around him, particularly sensitive to those he cares about. 

But he feels like there’s another layer to his awareness of Claire. He watches her in the kitchen, ever mindful of her groans of frustrations and anger and hopelessness. It’s a newly acquired skill that he now has: knowing when Claire needs a dose of his optimism and goofiness. With each laugh and giggle, he feels a sense of relief. He made it better for her. She’s going to be okay.

Lately, though, it doesn’t matter how much he dances and jokes and goofs off. The laughs don’t come as easily and the bags under her eyes are growing. She’s _tired _and burning out. He can see it, even if the higher ups can’t. 

She’s supposed to be down in the kitchen helping him prep the sourdough for an upcoming It’s Alive episode. She’d promised him she would. “I just needed to finish up this meeting with Adam and then answer a few emails. I’ll be there, though. Promise.”

But five, ten, fifteen, thirty minutes after the time she was supposed to be there, he shelved the flour and starter and went looking for her. 

Up in the offices, he said hello to the editing and research team, but for once remained focus. He followed the maze of offices until he was outside Claire’s temporary office. The door was closed and there was no answer when he knocked softly.

Creaking the door open, though, he stopped dead at the sight that greeted him. 

Claire, ole Half-Sour herself, slumped over her desk, head resting on her arms, and completely asleep. 

Brad felt something warm and soft flood his chest at the sight of her like this, sleeping and vulnerable and finally resting. She’d have a wicked crook in her neck when she woke up, but he couldn’t think of a way to move her to somewhere more comfortable—visions of lifting her into his arms and placing her on the staff couch down the hall filling his head—without waking her.

The canvas colored jacket bundled up in the corner with her purse caught his eye and he grinned, inexplicably pleased to see that Claire was still using the jacket he had lent to her all those months ago. He wondered how he’d missed her coming into the BA kitchen wearing it, wondered if she strategically took it off before getting inside. 

In a few measured steps, he grabbed the jacket, unfurled it, and draped it over her sleeping form. She stirred a little, nuzzling further into her arms and against the fabric of his jacket. 

He wondered what she was thinking about but quickly stopped the line of thought. That was dangerous, that road. They were _friends. _That was all. 

Still, he fought the urge to brush her hair behind her ear and drag his knuckles across her cheek. She looked content and relaxed for the first time in months and he was loathe to wake her. 

The sourdough could wait. 

When he closed the office door behind him, he wasted no time in grabbing paper, a marker, and tape from the nearest desk and scribbling a message to the rest of the BA staff. 

Satisfied, he hung his note on the door and headed back down to the kitchen.

_DO NOT DISTURB!!! SLEEPING CHEF INSIDE! _

** _iv._ **

“Brad! C’mon, we _have_ to dress the snowman. It’s not a snowman unless it’s got a scarf at the minimum.”

He scoffed, handing her the carrot and watching her with an amused smile as she carefully, artfully, _perfectly,_ placed the carrot in the exact center of the snowman’s face. 

“What? You’re not going to pull out a ruler and find the exact center?”

She shot him a good-natured glare, the cold of the snow and wind making her cheeks shiny and pink. “Don’t think I won’t.”

It had finally really, really started snowing, coating the ground with a thick layer of snow and Claire had come bounding into the kitchen, uncharacteristically chipper in the morning and demanding they come outside _right now_ to witness the magic of New York’s first real snow.

Only Brad had indulged her. 

Seeing her now, though, absolutely carefree and happy and focused on the simple pleasure of building a snowman made it absolutely worth the extra time he’d have to put in this afternoon to catch up on the work he was supposed to be doing now. 

“Okay, hand over your jacket. It’s the final touch.”

“No way, Claire. It’s freezing out here. You use _your_ jacket.”

“My jacket is too small! Look how big this snowman is! No way will my jacket work. C’mon—“She reached for the lapels of his jacket, tugging slightly. Her voice turned that strangely endearing blend of whining and teasing. “_Please.”_

He can’t help it, he laughs and bats her hands away. “No! Claire—“

“Brad!”

And then he’s not sure how it happens, one minute they’re joking around and squabbling, playfully tugging on each other’s jackets, desperate to clothe the poor snowman in the alleyway beside the World Trade Center and the next thing they know, they’re tumbling backwards and landing in a tangled pile in a nearby snowbank. 

Brad lands first, yelping at the shock of cold snow against his skin, the clumps falling into the collar of his jacket and shirt. Before he can process the cold and shock of being in a snowbank, Claire falls atop him with a soft _oof._

Automatically, his hands go to her hips to steady her and stop her from falling off of the safety of his chest and into the snowbank. No sense in both of them being miserable.

But Claire isn’t upset or shocked, she’s _laughing_. She shakes against him, buries her face into his jacket to hide her giggles, and he can’t help but grin and laugh right back.

Her laugh is infectious. 

She shifts on top of him, lifts her head (to scold him, probably, he thinks), and everything seems to freeze. All at once they both seem to be aware of their situation: his big, warm hands on her hip and the small of her back, holding her to his chest, her fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket and her hair acting like a curtain, shielding them from the rest of the world. 

Her smile fades and he can’t help himself, can feel the way he flicks his eyes from hers to her mouth. Every movement feels deliberate and slow, both giving the other time to get up and stop this.

But there is no stopping it. They’ve been barreling towards this exact moment since day one. 

Her fingertips are ice cold when they brush along the line of his jaw, his beard scratching the pads of her fingers. His own fingertips creep along the waistband of her jeans and slip beneath the layers of shirt and jacket and sweatshirt she’s wearing to get his fingers on her skin. She’s unbearably warm and it’s the last push he needs to move.

Lifting his head from the snowbank, he tilts his head and slants his lips over hers. There’s a moment of shock at the first touch—of friends to something _more—_and then she emits a tiny groan low in the back of her throat and kisses him back, fingertips tilting and guiding his jaw to adjust the kiss, getting the angle just right.

It’s a damn cliché that she tastes sweet, but she does and he wants another taste of her. He presses against the small of her back, urges her impossibly closer, and works his tongue across the seam of her mouth, seeking the heat of her mouth. She sighs against him and nips at his bottom lip, soothing the sting with her tongue.

He feels like they’ll both combust and melt the snow around them if they don’t stop soon. He tugs at her jacket, eases her away from the kiss. He likes the way her hands are curled into the lapels of his jacket, as if unwilling to let him go too far. 

“Don’t think our snowman is gettin’ dressed today,” he teases, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Her nose crinkles when she smiles at the use of _our_ and he controls the urge to reach back up and press another kiss to her pink mouth. 

Later, when he’s getting ready to go home for the day and takes his jacket off the hook, he can’t even be mad that it’s still soaking wet from the time spent in the snowbank. 

Because there, hovering awkwardly and nervously in the doorway, waiting for him is Claire, a tentative, searching smile on her face. 

He figures he can borrow her jacket for once. 

**Author's Note:**

> i know it's supposed to be 5 times and 1 he didn't, but like....i ran out of ideas.


End file.
